


Like 1895 Lightning & Thunder in a Minor Key

by okapi



Category: Real Person Fiction, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, The Great Mouse Detective (1986)
Genre: Bugs & Insects, Buried Alive, Community: fan_flashworks, Community: holmes_minor, Community: watsons_woes, Dreams, Ficlet Collection, Foot Fetish, Gen, Handcuffs, Horror, M/M, Orchids, Poetry, Song Lyrics, Story: The Adventure of the Creeping Man, Story: The Adventure of the Gloria Scott, Story: The Adventure of the Illustrious Client, Story: The Adventure of the Lion's Mane, Story: The Adventure of the Three Garridebs, Story: The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax, Vampire Watson, Writing on the Body
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-05-27 11:52:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 11,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6283438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poetry and prose in the ACD 'verse. Written for prompts in the LJ <a href="http://fan-flashworks.livejournal.com/">fan_flashworks</a>, <a href="http://watsons-woes.livejournal.com/">Watson's Woes</a>,  and <a href="http://holmes-minor.livejournal.com/">Holmes Minor</a> communities. All chapters stand alone. Mostly gen rating but check chapter summary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Voice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Community:** fan_flashworks  
>  **Title & Prompt:** Voice  
>  **Content notes:** Holmes/Watson (one-sided); POV Holmes; angst; references to “The Three Garridebs”  
>  **Summary:** Sixty seconds of “The Illustrious Client.” Watson visits Holmes after his attack.

Murmurs in the hall. 

“…quiet is essential...”

On the contrary, it is not quiet that is essential, but rather sound. One sound, the sound of the arrival of the essential. Other sounds, of the street and the dwelling and the humans and beasts therein, are not injurious, but simply immaterial. Essentially unessential.

The essential has arrived. Finally. I might’ve counted the passing hours but for the unconsciousness and the morphine veil that is descending, muffling Oakshott’s hushed, courteous farewell.

How we dance, Watson! 

Together, apart, together. Spin, twirl. Lead, follow. Hand touching hand until…

“You’re not hurt, Watson? For God’s sake, say that you are not hurt!”

I know wounds. Your scratch healed well and in no little time. It will not scar. The wound between us, however, has been left to fester, un-cauterised, for far too long. 

I wince. Pain is in the memory, within the skull, not upon it. 

“…you would not have got out of this room alive.”

Ridiculous! A statement that might, upon finding its way into an excellent periodical, have resulted in poorly cooked breakfast eggs about the metropolis!

I showed my hand, my heart, every bodily organ, save my brain!

I followed boldness with cowardice. Seeking to put distance between us, I set about making you the most sought-after physician in all of London. Your quiet surgery flooded; your collegial opinion pursued night and day. 

My indirect methods proved not indirect enough. An icy silence descended upon the rooms, only broken by your curt announcement of forwarding address, Queen Anne Street.

The first Thursday of the month found me where it always did and, to my joy, not alone. Our standing appointment at the Northumberland Avenue establishment still stood, like a monument to an ancient god surviving the conquerors’ sack. Amidst the steam and the towels and the tile and the silence of the upper room, you asked, 

“Anything stirring?”

I was ready.

And now here you are, in the doorway, letting your eyes adjust to the shadows. The one slant of daylight that allows you to study the bandages and the bruises allows me to study you.

I read your face, the only part of you that matters in this moment. I read your shock, your fear, your guilt, and your anger. Oh, that anger! There will be an offer of vengeful hide-thrashing or I am not Sherlock Holmes.

I am not Sherlock Holmes. 

In this careful minute, I am simply a friend asking for forgiveness from a friend. 

How does one break silence? With a single-stick? Or with a word. A word that will never find its way into black upon yellow, even if we are victorious against this formidable foe, even if the supreme moment of my career is close at hand. It is a hoarse whisper.

“John.”


	2. Le Watson Sans Moustache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Community:** fan_flashworks  
>  **Title:** Le Watson Sans Moustache  
>  **Prompt:** Fortune  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Content Notes:** Ballad; crack; Holmes/Watson or Holmes  & Watson; in the style of _La Belle Dame Sans Merci_ (Keats)  
>  **Summary:** Fortune favours whisker’d brave!

I.  
O What can grieve thee, sleuth-at-case?  
Afoot’s the game, amoor’s the hound,  
The corpse is bruised; most foul the play;  
And clues abound.  
  
II.  
O What can grieve thee, sleuth-at-case  
So stricken and harrumphed?  
The evidence is hid from sight,  
And the Yarders stumped.  
  
III.  
I saw a brown tuft in thy hand.  
With edges shorn and foamy tips,  
And at thy feet a basin’s spilled,  
And razor drips.  
  
IV.  
I met my Watson in Barts lab,  
A man of healing arts and war.  
His hair, rich amber, shone like gold,  
And his moustache, more.  
  
V.  
I made a garland, words not vines,  
To awe him and to flash my wile.  
He look’d at me with brows upraised  
And wondrous smile.  
  
VI.  
I bade him come and share my life  
As Boswell, aide, companion, friend.  
He came, became, my whetstone, rock  
On whom I depend.  
  
VII.  
I found my Watson loyal, brave,  
No matter plot, plan, scheme, or ruse,  
In language plain, he said, “I’m here  
For you to use.”  
  
VIII.  
His features, solid, square, and true  
His eyes as telling as his script.  
His crowning glory centre-face  
Above his lip.  
  
IX.  
So lush, his bristling bristles gleamed!  
No finer ever graced my eyes.  
This morn, bare-lipped, he greeted me,  
To my dread-surprise.  
  
X.  
I cry, again, aloud and pained,  
“How can dear Watson fail to know  
That fortune favours whisker’d brave,  
Not shaven beau?”  
  
XI.  
I seized the culprits, blade and bowl.  
The why’s elusive even still;  
For mind, a puzzle; pride, a blow;  
And for heart, a chill.  
  
XII.  
And this is why I stand aggrieved,  
Though game’s afoot, amoor’s the hound,  
Though foul’s the play; the corpse, well-lashed;  
And clues abound.


	3. Surfacing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Community:** fan_flashworks  
>  **Title:** Surfacing  
>  **Prompt:** Up  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Content Notes:** English sonnet; from “The Lion’s Mane”; POV animal (Lion’s mane jellyfish)

Adrift in currents strong, I wander wide  
And far in search of waters warm and still.  
A briny jungle beast without a pride.  
I rise, and into shallow pools, I spill.

Afloat on waves serene, I drift again.  
Exploring cranny after nook, I comb  
The rocky shores. At length, I choose my den.  
I pause, sheath claws, down sails, and settle home. 

My golden mane extends as I retire  
In tidal quay, at rest at journey’s end.  
Until a clumsy fiend ignites my ire.  
I surface. Lashing up and out, I fend.

“Disturb my peace and face my wrath!“ I roar.  
A trembling heart beats once and beats no more.


	4. Chambers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Community:** Holmes Minor  
>  **Title:** Chambers  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Prompt:** Small but perfectly formed  
>  **Content Notes:** Post-“The Three Garridebs.” Quotes from and poem inspired by “The Chambered Nautilus” by Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr.   
> **Summary:** Watson catches a second glimpse of Holmes’s great heart.

Readers with keen memories may recall that I described the climax of the case presented to the public as “The Three Garridebs” as ‘the only and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain’ of my friend Sherlock Holmes. A lie. There was another instance, related to the very same case.   
  
As we entered the Brixton nursing-home, Holmes’s expression was thoughtful, unchanged since we had learned the fate of his former client, Nathan Garrideb.  He sat down opposite the old man and produced a handkerchief-wrapped bundle, which, when unfurled, was revealed to be a shell, one I recognized as having adorned the mantelpiece of 221B Baker Street.  
  
“Exquisite!”   
  
The nurse gasped. It was, I later learned, the first word she had ever heard her patient utter.   
  
“For your collection,” said Holmes as he opened the shell, which was split in two with a thin gold hinge linking the halves.  “ _Nautilus pompilius_ , one of the smaller of its kind, but perfectly formed.”  
  
“ _Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!_ ’ The poet, also a Holmes. Any relation?”  
  
“Regrettably, no.”  
  
The old man turned his gaze to the shell’s spiralled interior. “What is it of Nature, Mister Holmes, that makes poet of the philosopher-collector?”  
  
It was in the reply that my friend showed his great heart once more. He smiled, shook his head, and said,   
  
“I may, one day, pen a sonnet on bees, but there is wisdom in both poetry and Nature.

>   
> ‘ _Leave thy low-vaulted past!_  
>  _Let each new temple, nobler than the last,_  
>  _Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,_  
>  _Till thou at length art free,_  
>  _Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea!’”_

  
  
The old man covered Holmes’s hand with his own.  
  
“Thank you, Mister Holmes. You have come to my aid twice.”   
  
Some weeks later, Holmes dropped a letter on the table beside me, and as I read, a bittersweet melody sang forth from his violin.  
  
 _The Ship of Pearl_  
 _By N. Garrideb_

>   
>  _This is the ship of pearl, which bids the old man feign_   
>  _Sailor-poet and deign_   
>  _To dream of bark that flings;_   
>  _Of where the Siren sings; of purpled wings;_   
>  _Of gulfs; of reefs; of far-off places, things;_   
>  _Of sea-maids sun-dried hair,_   
>  _Where the old man hies and hides from daylight’s glare._   
>    
>  _Each cell a home forsaken, small yet perfectly coiled,_   
>  _Dwelling, dweller unspoiled_   
>  _By eyes, by cries, by hue._   
>  _He never looked behind when passing through_   
>  _Each shimmering, beckoning archway new;_   
>  _Not grieving, bereaving more_   
>  _Collections, recollections of old walls four._   
>    
>  _Beneath cloud-castle ruins a buried soul_   
>  _Silent, entombed, but whole,_   
>  _Awoke. Thy message hast_   
>  _Like Jericho’s trumpet, a sea-roar’s blast._   
>  _‘Arise and build, for this chamber shan’t be thy last!_   
>  _This ship of pearl shall be, for thee,_   
>  _Vessel, companion, guide for life’s unresting sea!’”_

  
  
I can recall Holmes playing that particular melody only once more: the day that the nautilus returned to its resting place on the mantelpiece of 221B.


	5. Feet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Community:** Holmes Minor  
>  **Title:** Feet  
>  **Prompt:** Small, but perfectly formed  
>  **Rating:** Mature  
>  **Warnings:** foot fetish, masturbation, Turkish bath; POV Holmes; Holmes/Watson (one-sided)  
>  **Summary:** Holmes explains. “… _It was over a smoke in the pleasant lassitude of the drying-room that I have found him less reticent and more human than anywhere else_ …” The Illustrious Client.

I smile as I read his account. Oh, Watson! 

I took no pains to hide my curiosity at Watson’s zeal for Turkish bath and so an invitation was readily extended and accepted and we soon found ourselves in the vestibule of a Northumberland Avenue establishment. As we disrobed, I saw a part of him that I had never before seen and the sight of which shook me to the core. 

He had small—no, not small, but smaller than expected for a man of his stature—perfectly formed feet. 

I reserve the word ‘exquisite’ for only the finest of wines and melodies and puzzles of human nature. 

Watson’s feet were exquisite. 

I was so struck by their beauty—and a stab of want—that I abandoned my usual impassivity and decorum. 

I stared. 

He laughed. “Not the feet of a soldier, eh? I will tell you my secret. Come.” 

We moved to the calidarium, sitting opposite each other. He leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial tone,

“There is a man here, straight from the banks of the Yangtze as they say, who massages feet—the only part of the body he touches, but oh! Does he touch them! Nothing short of a miracle, I tell you. Like the fountain of youth! He is as much a master of his field as you are of yours.”

A dry ‘indeed’ was all I could muster. 

In truth, there is no part of Watson that is not aesthetically appealing, and in that moment, much of him was on display, but my gaze was drawn down to the parts under discussion.

My lust grew until I feared that I would betray myself. I coughed and said as coolly as the extreme temperature of the room and situation allowed,

“Perhaps I could observe a session. Such knowledge may figure prominently in a future case.” 

“By all means.” 

What followed would be the stuff of reverie. I imagine myself splendidly-robed, sitting before him, taking his feet in my hands, washing and drying them, grooming his nails, scouring his soles—a rough stroke to the left producing a charming noise. I massage his feet with a lightly-scented unguent, employing deep, long strokes that elicit sighs and groans, and when my Watson is relieved of his tension and restored to his youth, bow my head to kiss each arch. And take one plump toe in my mouth. 

On rawer nights, I imagine that we are in a less reputable establishment and that Watson takes himself in hand, making his pleasure equal to my own as I worship him.

Fantasy, of course. 

In reality, I observed, politely refused to avail myself of the miracle-worker’s services, and fled to the coldest pool available. And though we frequented that—and other—baths on many occasions, I was never again party to one of those particular sessions. 

And so you see, my loquacity and humanity at the Turkish bath are no mystery: 

I am quite simply a fool in love.


	6. Henna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Community:** fan_flashworks  
>  **Title:** Henna  
>  **Prompt:** Ink  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Content Notes:** Watson/Holmes; hurt/comfort; writing on the body; takes place during “The Illustrious Client,” with references to “The Three Garridebs,” reference to Biblical passage 1 Corinthians 13:7  
>  **Summary:** Watson visits Holmes after his attack.  
>  **Author’s Note:** Follow-up to Voice (Chapter 1 of this collection).

I have mentioned the fact that in many of my chronicles of the adventures of Sherlock Holmes, I have editorialised, that is to say, I have altered names and dates and locations. In the story known to the public as “The Illustrious Client,” I expunged several hours, not to shield client, victim, or the relations thereof, from public scrutiny but rather Holmes and myself.  
  
I stood in the door, studying Holmes as he studied me, by the one slant of daylight that penetrated the heavy-curtained room.  
  
My eyes widened at the bandages and bruises, though in the short time between my learning of his attack and my arrival at his door, I had imagined much worse. Holmes had angered some foul villains in his time and, until now, had, to my knowledge, survived all threats and machinations unscathed. I drew in a sharp breath at what this Baron Gruner had accomplished through his blackguard associates and snarled at the thought of personally meting out the hide-thrashing they so richly deserved.  
  
The shock and the fear and the anger were fleeting, however. The predominant sentiment was guilt. I had abandoned my friend, and this was the consequence: crimson-soaked linen, bright and accusing.  
  
“John.”  
  
Morphine was a curious creature, I thought; it rendered the impossible only highly improbable.  
  
I sat beside him and bent my head and what followed was nothing short of a confession.  
  
Words poured out of him, how ashamed he’d been at his outburst when Evans had shot me, how he connived to put distance between us by covertly promoting my medical practice, how injured he was at my departure for the Queen Anne Street lodgings, how relieved at my appearance at our usual appointed day and hour at the Turkish bath on Northumberland Avenue.  
  
The soliloquy lasted for more than an hour, with moments of silence and coherent statements interspersed with poetic ramblings, much of the latter with a dancing motif.  
  
He seemed to be addressing a Watson inside his mind as much as the one by his side.  
  
I listened with my eyes fixed on a corner of the rug, and only when I felt he had finally concluded, did I raise my head to respond.  
  
He was asleep.  
  
Curious, indeed.  
  
After half an hour’s thought, I had decided on my course of action and went hunting for the necessary implements amongst Holmes’ trove of scientific trinkets and curiosities.  
  
I found brush and ink, or to be more precise, skin-stain, of a kind I’d first seen during my time in India. Then carefully, without waking the patient, I inscribed four words on his inner forearm.  
  


**_Beareth, believeth, endureth, hopeth_ **

 

I was still by his side when he woke some hours later. The slumber had done him much good, for when he spoke, his voice was much stronger.  
  
“All right, Watson. Don’t look so scared. It’s not as bad as it seems.”  
  
“Thank God for that!”  
  
And so the tale went on as I have recounted.  
  
I saw much, much later that my temporary inscription had been made permanent, but the story of that revelation and its consequences is for another day.


	7. Confined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Community:** Holmes Minor  
>  **Title:** Confined  
>  **Prompt:** Small and confined spaces  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Content Notes:** Holmes/Watson, jealous Watson, reference to bondage  
>  **Summary:** Holmes returns to Baker Street after an interview with a king.

I believe that I have written of the cleanliness of Holmes’ life, which extended invariably to his public presentation, that is to say, to his wardrobe, so when he returned to Baker Street one afternoon looking somewhat rumpled, I knew at once that something was stirring.   
  
He was not in disguise, and he did not appear to be injured. On the contrary, he was positively brimming with satisfaction. Had our positions been reversed, he would, of course, have been able to tell with maddening precision where and with whom I had been, but I was left puzzled and a bit piqued.   
  
Just who, exactly, had been rumpling him?  
  
“Watson! I have just had the most singular interview!”   
  
“With whom?”   
  
“A king!”  
  
Now, England had no king at that moment, and I knew that even the King of Bohemia had called on Holmes at Baker Street, so this sovereign must be singular, indeed, to have roused my friend from his lair and his routine.   
  
“He is a skilful workman, one after my own heart, who has filled his attic with the most astounding array of tools. Were that my own lumber room,” he tapped his forehead, “a bit larger and could accommodate some of his furnishings! I would transplant them forthwith!”  
  
“A wizened old sage, was he?”  
  
“At twenty-six, hardly. American. Fit like a drum.”  
  
“And where did you meet this tambourine?!”  
  
He grinned. “In a trunk!”  
  
“A trunk?!”  
  
“I was handcuffed, shackled, and locked in the trunk, and he instructed me on how to free myself. This was, of course, after introductions.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“He shared with me a small portion of his knowledge of sword-swallowers, fire-eaters, defiers of poisonous reptiles, escape artists such as himself, as well as spiritualists who claim to commune with the dead. Surely you can see that it is all knowledge that may, one day, prove invaluable in the solving of crimes. He also paid me the honour of allowing me to experiment in his laboratory.”  
  
“The trunk, I presume?”  
  
“Indeed!”  
  
“And what did you offer in return?”  
  
“An introduction. I thought Gregson might be the most susceptible to his particular brand of charm, and I was correct. The young man escaped from a pair of Scotland Yard ‘cuffs in front of a dozen astonished inspectors.”  
  
“I’m sorry I missed the show,” I grumbled.   
  
“You haven’t.” He displayed two tickets. “Because of his demonstration, he’s been booked at the Alhambra. Tonight. Front row. You will be just astounded as they were, my good man!”  
  
“Are you sure that _you_ aren’t the one susceptible to his charm?”  
  
“Come now, Watson.” With a wave of the hand, he produced a pair of antique manacles. “A gift to us from Mr. Harry Houdini, the King of Handcuffs”  
  
“Us?”  
  
“The cuffs are for me,” he said, offering me a small piece of metal. “The key is for you, of course. So, what say you to a night of magic?”  
  
I smiled and took the key.  
  
“I say ‘Yes.’” 


	8. Ghastly Weather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Community:** Watson's Woes and Holmes Minor  
>  **Title:** Ghastly Weather  
>  **Prompt:** Stormy weather and small and confined spaces.  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Content Notes:** References to “The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax,” being buried alive in a coffin, Holmes/Watson, shifting POV.  
>  **Summary:** Peters exacts revenge on Holmes

It is a dark and stormy morning, but the soil between my fingers is dry.  
  
“Mrs. Hudson!”  
  
I peer into the envelope again. No note. Only a small quantity of dirt.   
  
“Oh, my!”   
  
I know the words that are to issue from her lips.  
  
“Mr. Holmes, I didn’t expect you—“  
  
Should I waste my breath? No. Given what I very much fear are the circumstances, wasted breath would be the foulest of sacrilege.  
  
“—for Doctor Watson received a telegram very early this morning and rushed out to meet _you_.”  
  
I close my eyes. I have no time to remember, but remember I do.   
  
“ _If our ex-missionary friends escape the clutches of Lestrade…_ ”  
  
Which they had, but not before Peters threatened—how aptly Watson described that cruel, vicious mouth—to ‘bury my very heart.’ I answered coolly that it would require a much smaller coffin than that of Rose Spender were it to be a single occupant vehicle on its return journey to earth.   
  
Earth. I crumble it in my fingers. I smell it, even taste it, and in doing so, determine exactly from whence it comes.  
  
“… _I shall expect to hear of some brilliant incidents in their future career_.”   
  
Peters and his wife will hang for this brilliance.   
  


* * *

  
Darkness.   
  
Silence.  
  
Wood. Wood. Wood. Wood.  
  
Trapped!  
  
I hear your voice. _Oh, Watson, must you always fall for the trick?_  
  
I hit. I kick. I thrash. I claw.  
  
I scream.   
  
Darkness.   
  
Air.  
  
There is no air. There must be air.  
  
Help.  
  
There is no help. There must be help.  
  
I scream again.  
  
Over and over, I fight, I scream.  
  
Finally, I listen.   
  
Nothing, save my ragged breath and my hollow heartbeat.   
  
Finally, I pray.  
  
_ Holmes, find me.  _  
  
_ Find me. _  
  
_ Find. _  
  
_ Me _ .  


* * *

  
I am moving, rising, so this is what means to travel from earth to—  
  
_ CRACK! _  
  
Cold. Air.  
  
Bright. Light.   
  
Wet. Wet. Wet.   
  
Rain.   
  
I do not need to see. I hear.   
  
“WATSON!”  
  
A noise. My own croaked response. I try again.  
  
“Holmes.” 

* * *

  
I am never more thankful for an April storm. It provided the trail that led me to your—not final, not final by half if I have any say in the matter, my good man—resting place.  
  
When your voice returns, you say, “Ghastly weather.”   
  
I shift the umbrella, shielding a head, yours, and allowing wayward tears, mine, to fall amongst the raindrops.   
  
I reply,   
  
“Indeed, frightful.”


	9. Would you believe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Community:** fan_flashworks  
>  **Title:** Would you believe  
>  **Prompt:** Wish  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Content Notes:** Holmes  & Watson or Holmes/Watson; all questions; 221B ficlet  
>  **Summary:** During the Great Hiatus, a meteor shower brings out the poet in Sigerson

Would you believe it, my dear Watson?

Would you believe that a man voluntarily ignorant of the composition of the Solar System is, at this moment, gazing at the night’s sky with wonder?

Would you believe that this man, who also wilfully forgets the Copernican Theory, is watching a cascade of celestial lights and wishing on each falling star like a child?

Would you believe that this man, a Norwegian named Sigerson, is standing at the mouth of a cave, on the side of a cliff, in a far-off land, looking out at the heavenly spectacle?

Would you believe that this intrepid explorer is not sparing one thought for the peak that he will summit at dawn, but rather is thinking only of a warm smile and a hearty laugh and a glass of fine wine and a plate of cold pheasant some worlds away?

Would you believe that his eyes are following each glowing streak like hounds on the scent?

Would you believe that his lips repeat over and over, as if in prayer, a single wish of two parts?

Would you believe that the first is ‘keep him safe’?

Would you believe that the second is ‘bring me home’?

Would you believe it, my dear Watson?

When I tell you, face to face, my dear man, will you believe?


	10. Stormy Weather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Community:** Watson's Woes  
>  **Title & Prompt:** Stormy Weather  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Content Notes:** Crack. Song lyrics.  
>  **Summary:** Watson sings the Reichenbach blues.  
>  **Author’s Note:** Crack version of the 1933 song “Stormy Weather.” Original lyrics by H. Arlen  & T. Koehler. Performed by Billie Holiday, Lena Horne, and many others.

Can’t recall why my man got up and took a fall  
Stormy weather  
Since then, my umbrella ain’t poppin’  
Raindrops ain’t stopped droppin’

Boots a-stumblin’ since my man gone a-tumblin’  
Stormy weather  
Thunder a-rumblin’; my poor eyes need moppin’  
Raindrops keep droppin’ all the time. And  
The ‘stache done lost its shine.

I gotta gal, or  
Maybe not. Life’s a muddle.  
The arm, no, leg’s sore. I’m drownin’ in a puddle.  
Nothin’ to explore, no puzzle to befuddle  
Since my man took a dive.

Sick don’t knock since he jump’d off Swiss rock.  
Stormy weather  
I smoke and sigh. Cheek’s wet, shingle’s dry.  
Rain droppin’ all the time.  
Tears droppin,’ such a crime.

I gotta pup, or  
Maybe not. Who can say?  
Keepin’ track’s a chore since my man up and swam away  
Door got the what-for ‘cause sun’s left on holiday  
And ‘stache’s got its bag packed.

Can’t recall why my man got up and took a fall  
Stormy weather  
Since his good-bye, my suit’s always wet  
Rain won’t let me forget.  
Rain droppin’ all the time.  
Tears droppin’. It’s a crime!


	11. Bullet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Community:** fan_flashworks  
>  **Title:** Bullet  
>  **Prompt:** Shot  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Content Notes/Warnings:** Horror, angst, **major character death (off screen)** , **implied suicide (off screen)** , insects, Holmes & Watson, slash goggles optional, post-"The Three Garridebs" AU.  
>  **Summary:** It’s not the shot that kills you, it’s the bullet.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

“Mycroft!”

“Mr. Holmes!”

“I received news of the dust-up on Little Ryder Street and want to inquire as to Doctor Watson’s well-being.”

“Word travels fast!” cried Watson. “We’ve only just arrived back at Baker Street. But as you can see,” he gestured to his bandaged arm, “the wound is a mere scratch. Superficial. The only danger is infection, which will be guarded against strenuously, of course.”

“That is not the only danger, Watson,” said Holmes. “My brother does not vary his routine for sick-bed pleasantries, no matter how deserving the convalescent.”

The elder Holmes nodded. “Evans keeps peculiar company, and through sources I am not at liberty to disclose, I have learned that Doctor Watson’s life is in danger. Grave danger.” He turned to Watson. “Doctor, it would be best if you left London at once.”

“What? No!”

“This is the address of a bolthole some distance from the city. Your transport is waiting. Doctor Watson, you trust my brother’s judgement. Ask him if I would speak out of turn. It is, I assure you, no trifling matter.”  

Watson turned to Holmes, who waved his hand.

“Go. Wiggins will accompany you. I’ll follow shortly when I have more knowledge.”

Watson shrugged, then nodded. Before leaving, he looked Holmes in the eye and said,

“It was worth a wound—it was worth many wounds—to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind your mask. Today I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as a great brain.”

Holmes held his gaze for a long moment, then replied,

“There will be time for hyperbole and other literary devices when this adventure is completely behind us. Go. Mycroft—”

Holmes turned, but his brother had disappeared.

* * *

“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?”

“I’ve arranged for the use of a private anteroom, Sherlock. Silence yourself and follow me.”

The door closed.

“For God’s sake, let’s not upset the tea trolley! Here we are. Now, what did you mean by the pack of lies you told Watson earlier?”

“There was no falsehood in what I told Doctor Watson, but, for his own sake, I did not speak the whole truth.”

“Speak it now and quickly. I have a train to catch.”

“You are going nowhere, Sherlock.” The clock chimed the hour. “Watson is dead. Wiggins, too, I’m afraid.”

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?”

“Not me, brother mine, but let me begin at the beginning. I spoke truth when I said Evans keeps peculiar company. That company includes one of the many thinkers and tinkers—men after your own heart, Sherlock—employed by the government to create tools for the nation’s defence.”

“Weapons.”

“Yes. This companion of Evans was assigned to the artillery unit, but he was a natural philosopher by training and interest. The last few weeks found him on the cusp of an invention of interest to many of our friends and foes alike: bullets coated with an unguent of his own fabrication. It is certain that the bullets in Evans’ gun were of the prototype set.”

“This unguent, it is poison?”

“It is eggs.”

The clock ticked.

“How—?”

“An insect recently brought back from the jungles of South America. The adult has a tiny body but comparatively large wings. The eggs are extremely resilient. They can survive on the exterior of the bullet for some time. The gun firing appears to be the spark that sets off a chain of events; when the bullet passes through the human body, the hatchlings abandon it like passengers alighting on a train platform.”

“The platform being Watson!”

“The human body serves as ideal host. The pests favour small, confined spaces where they have ample nourishment, which is to say, ample flesh on which to feed.”

“Watson!”

“They pass through the larval and pupal stages and multiply rapidly and once their food source is depleted—“

The door slammed shut.

* * *

“Sherlock!”

“Don’t waste your breath, Mycroft! I am going to him!”

“Fire is their sole enemy. Should you go, you’ll only find a blaze and a stench—my associates are seeing to that. He’s gone, Sherlock. I am so very, very sorry.”

“He may survive. He, too, is extremely resilient.”

“SHERLOCK!”

* * *

“Here we are,” said the driver.

“Thank you.” Holmes quickly pressed coins into the man’s hand. “As we agreed.”

“Thank _you_ , sir.” He removed his hat and wiped his brow, staring at the scene, “I never seen anything like it. The whole place gone up in flames. Mister, mister, where are you going? Come back! What are you doing?”

The driver’s cries drowned in the din.

It was chaos: a multitude of tiny silver wings flapping amidst smoke and cinders. Holmes covered his nose and mouth with his handkerchief and marched, head up, shoulders back, into the swarm.


	12. Maiwand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Community:** fan_flashworks  
>  **Title:** Maiwand  
>  **Prompt:** Shot  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Content Notes:** Soldier’s englyn (x 5); POV Watson  
>  **Summary:** Watson reflects on the Battle of Maiwand

July morn, cursed, fateful

Afghan sun, brutal, hateful

Mis’ry, ours, by the crateful

 

Outgunned, outflanked, surrounded

Confused, callow, confounded

Misfortune, ours, compounded

 

Khakis of every shade

Bloodied by bullet, by blade

Mercy’s hand, in ours, stayed

 

Shattered, a bone, a lot

In the crack of jezail shot

A life, mine, by trial fraught

 

A mere moment among scores

Closes windows, opens doors

Until two paths cross, mine, yours

 

Away lions, medals, plaques!

Wounds linger, but do not tax.

This play, mine, has third, fourth acts!


	13. Handsome Cab

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Community:** Holmes Minor  
>  **Prompt:** [Two illustrations](http://holmes-minor.livejournal.com/3436.html)  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Summary:** Two limericks about the April Activity illustrations.

* * *

 

There once was a handsome cab

Ever ready for Holmes to grab

“When game’s a-loose,

I only want to deduce,

but Watson won’t ride in chariots drab!”

 

  
Criss-crossing London it roams

Streets, narrow and dark, it combs

"Oy, Watson, a clue?"

"No, 'strade, a horseshoe

Engraved 'Property of Sherlock Holmes!'”


	14. Somehow Impure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Community:** fan_flashworks  
>  **Title:** Somehow Impure  
>  **Prompt:** Dirty  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Content Notes:** Italian sonnet; inspired by a scene in the Granada TV version of the canon story “The Creeping Man” where Alice Morphy asks her friend Edith Presbury to tell her father (who is Alice’s fiancée) to stop sending her orchids because they are ‘somehow impure.’ This scene is not in the original story.  
>  **Summary:** The orchids unsettle Alice.  
>  **Author’s Note:** I believe the orchid used in the scene is an _Odontioda_ Victoria Village, a modern white hybrid, bred from the species _Odontoglossum crispum_. It is white and frilly with faint gold touches and very dark red-violet spots at the centre.

Unfurled uncurled the white majestic bloom’d  
Like flags announcing royalty’s parade  
Exotic beauty, pale, in glass displayed  
Inviting praise, exhaling breath perfumed  
A golden kiss adorns each blossom plumed  
On silk wan, magenta caress betrayed.  
A courtesan’s expression, guarded, staid  
That hints of buried lies and loves exhumed.

O hateful blooms! Love’s emissary not!  
Too knowing, bold for maiden young demure  
Thy folds and frills remind what’s best forgot  
Reveal, expose too much to one unsure  
Be gone! My heart’s unsettled, my nerves wrought  
By flowers fair, but oh, somehow impure!


	15. A Journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Community:** Holmes Minor  
>  **Title:** A Journey  
>  **Prompt:** A journey from A to 221(B)  
>  **Form:** a homemade variation on the 221B form with ‘A’ being the first word and 221b (counted as 1 word) being the final; acrostic poem  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Summary:** Watson reflects on the journey from Jezail bullet to Baker Street.

**A** journey of four thousand miles begins with one step, mine, into the path of a

 **J** ezail bullet. That step, misstep, might have been journey’s first and last, save for the brave heart of an

 **O** rderly and the strong back of a pack-horse upon which I narrowly escaped,

 **U** nder a snarling Afghan sun, the clutches of the murderous Ghazis.

 **R** emoved was I, on that loping, lumbering caravan of suffering, to Peshawur,

 **N** ot suspecting that my pain, my prolonged hardship was far from over.

 **E** very step about the wards, every breath of air enjoyed upon the verandah, was one of a finite set,

 **Y** awning before me lay the perils of enteric

 **F** ever. Once again, journey’s end seemed near, but the curse of our Indian possessions lifted, and I was

 **R** emoved once more, less man than walking bones, in the troopship

 ** _O_** _rontes_ to Portsmouth Jetty. Unmoored, untethered, I drained alongside my fellow idlers to London,

 **M** y pockets heavy with eleven shilling, sixpence of paternal concern. Under such a sail, I drifted

 **A** few hundred steps from hotel to Bar, one gasp of recognition from shoulder-tap to smile, a hansom

 **T** o a bleak stone staircase of a great hospital, then the grasp of a plaster-mottled, acid-stained hand.

 **O** h arduous was the voyage in its undertaking, but so sweet the reckoning! My home-coming to

**221B!**


	16. Hiccup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Community:** Watson's Woes  
>  **Title & Prompt:** Hiccup  
>  **'Verse:** The Great Mouse Detective (1986)  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Summary:** While hunting for Ratigan's henchbat, Fidget, at the Rat Trap, Basil of Baker Street muses on his new acquaintance, Major Doctor David Q. Dawson.

****Imagine Major Doctor David Q. Dawson of the Queen’s 66th Regiment sauntering into my life! Of course, I recognised the name at once, one didn’t need an encyclopaedic knowledge of mousedom like mine to recall the heroes of Maiwand.  
  
Perhaps he will stay.  
  
Because I _need_ an assistant. Mrs. Judson is a fine housekeeper, and tea and warm cheese crumpets and ballistic-worthy pillows go very far, but at times, frankly, not quite far enough. I certainly could not imagine her here, in the Rat Trap, tracking down Ratigan’s henchbeasts. Imagine her on the stage, prancing about, asking sailors and bums to let her be good to them.  
  
No, no, no.  
  
Does he play chess? Most military mice do. Strategy and whatnot. He was a major, after all.  
  
And he took a rather keen interest in the chemistry. Of course, he did. Doctoring is a science as well as an art, and he’s as much doctor as army mouse. Might, with proper incentive, prevail upon him to darn some socks, minus the Afghan catgut, of course. That Lembert stitch was a wonder.  
  
And he has that gentle, avuncular way with the girl. Might do well with the clients. Why they bristle so, I can’t fathom!  
  
But I must learn to curb my temper. He has such a soft heart. There was no need to berate him about the snatching of the girl, but oh so clever that he found the list!  
  
Does he like my moustache? His is so much more _moustachier_.  
  
I was right, of course, he looks perfect in that sailor get-up. Perfectly foolish. A test, which he passed with flying colours. Any mouse who won’t balk much at being trussed up like a vaudeville idea of a low-life ruffian for a good cause is the kind of mouse that you want by your side when the real ruckus begins.  
  
And the way he says, ‘amazing’ when I put forth my deductions, well, it’s lovely. And wholly accurate, of course.  
  
The old fellow could be my personal biographer. The whetstone upon which I sharpen my wit. My friend.  
  
Yes, he must be persuaded to stay. Perhaps a nice bottle of sherry would help.  
  
Such a stout-hearted chap! Into the fray, without so much as a hiccup!  
  
“There you are boys. It’s on the house.”  
  
“Dawson, these drinks have been drugged.”  
  
“It has a rather nice bite to it, Basil.”  
  
_Hiccup!_  
  
Good heavens!


	17. Hide and Seek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Community:** fan_flashworks  
>  **Title & Prompt:** Hide and Seek  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Content Notes:** double drabble, angst, POV Watson, prose poem.  
>  **Summary:** Watson grieves post-Reichenbach.  
>  **Author’s Note:** Written for the 125th anniversary of the day Moriarty and Holmes met at the Reichenbach Falls.

A child’s game. 

Hide and seek.

“Close your eyes,” you said. “Count.”

I did.

I do.

Ten.

Words in ‘believe me to be, my dear fellow, Very sincerely yours.’ I have read those words, touched them until ink smudged, vanished.

Nine.

Glances at the clock in the hope that another hour has passed.

Nine.

Newspaper stories read this morning that brought you to mind. I read the first aloud, wept anew.

Eight.

Sighs provoked at the thought of concealing anything of value in a Turkish slipper.

Seven.

Shouts hurled down an abyss; half-human cries borne back to straining ears.

Six.

Feet of an Alpine-stock, left against a rock. How it failed you, fails me! Every time it catches my gaze from the corner of the room, I stumble.

Five.

The hour I expected to see you in Rosenlaui.

Four

Nights a strain of _Lieder_ has woke me from fitful slumber.

Three.

Pages that fluttered to the ground.

Two.

Lines of footprints in a path. Were there three, there might have been five.

One.

I open my eyes. You are gone.

We are frozen, framed on a wall.

Me, ever seeking.

You, ever hidden in the spray of the Reichenbach Falls.


	18. A Holmes in Wolf's Clothing (Werewolf!Watson. Humor.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Community:** fan_flashworks  
>  **Title:** A Holmes in Wolf’s Clothing  
>  **Prompt:** Wolf  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Content Notes:** Crack, humour, AU  
>  **Summary:** Watson is a werewolf. Holmes is Holmes.

The train whistle blew.  
  
“Never again, Holmes.”  
  
“But…”  
  
“Never again will you follow me on the eve of a full moon. You must, I repeat _must_ , leave the ‘howling wilderness’ to the howling.”  
  
“I howled,” he grumbled as he stared out at the darkness beyond the window.  
  
“You were nearly torn to shreds, that is, when you weren’t fending off amorous advances from the, uh, more adventurous of our lot!”  
  
“That _was_ rather unpleasant. Thank you for your assistance.”  
  
“You’re welcome.”  
  
“As I had only read second-hand accounts, I was naturally curious about your customs.” He gave a melancholy sigh, then suddenly became reanimated. “You have written, on more than one occasion, Watson, that I am a master of disguise. Surely—“  
  
I leaned forward. “I can’t very well tell the readers of _The Strand_ that you are, in fact, a master of _human_ disguise! But that is the truth: a Holmes in wolf’s clothing is downright laughable! And fools no one! Certainly no lycanthrope free from the lust-fog of oestrus.”  
  
He grunted. “But what I am to do with said ‘clothing’? A rug?”  
  
I considered the question. “Perhaps Mrs. Hudson would like a hat and matching muff for Christmas.”


	19. No Wolf at the Door (Werewolf!Watson. Humor.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Community:** fan_flashworks  
>  **Title:** No Wolf at the Door  
>  **Prompt:** Wolf  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Content Notes:** Crack, humor, AU.  
>  **Summary:** Watson is (still) a werewolf. Holmes is (still) Holmes.

“It is lost on you, Watson.”

“Not at all. There was a love story and the massacre. The libretto helped tremendously.”

“Not the opera!”

“Then what?”

“Lycanthropy.”

I laughed.

“It is no jest. I observe. My mind makes connections.” He snapped his fingers. “If I had but a fraction of your acuity, no criminal would be safe!”

“Holmes…”

“Your sense of smell. Your hearing. Night and peripheral vision. They are lost on you!”

“They only surface in my altered state, Holmes.”

“No matter! I would spend the full moon here, solving crimes, not frolicking about wooded fairylands!”

“Now see here, I _like_ frolicking.”

Holmes snorted.

“Some of us enjoy exercise for exercise’s sake, Holmes.”

He sat up suddenly.

“Do you hear the pawing, the snorting, Watson? Is there a wolf at the door, my dear man?!”

I strode across the room and threw open the door.

“It is Mrs. Hudson.”

“Your cocoa!” she barked.

“Thank you so very much,” I said quickly, taking the tray.

When she had left, he whispered, “Do you think Mrs. Hudson…?”

“I think Mrs. Hudson is tired of catering to our whims. An early birthday gift would not go amiss.”

“I have just the thing.”


	20. Correspondence. (POV Victor Trevor. Pining Trevor.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Community:** Holmes Minor  
>  **Title:** Correspondence  
>  **Rating:** G  
>  **Length:** 200 + 100 + 60 + 6  
>  **Content Notes:** for the May 2016 activity, which was to write the same story as a double drabble, drabble, 60-word story, and 6 word story; references to canon story "The _Gloria Scott_."  
>  **Summary:** After his father's death, Victor Trevor bids farewell to Sherlock Holmes.  
>  **Author's Note:** A companion piece to [Christmas Rose](http://fan-flashworks.livejournal.com/677401.html).

_My dearest Holmes,_   
  
_ Circumstances compel me to put distance between myself and my home, that the father of my memory and the man of the letter you read to me might be reconciled. I seek to understand and mourn him as well as to forge a new life in a new land where I might stand, or fall, on my own merits. I leave for India, the Terai tea planting, tomorrow. _  
  
_ To leave you behind grieves me most. A remarkable journey awaits you, Sherlock Holmes. That I will not be at your side to watch it unfold pains me greatly, but when your feats reach the newspapers and those newspapers make their way around the Empire, I will be following your career with the most avid of interest.  _  
  
_ You are, in a word, fascinating. I shall not meet another like you nor shall I ever be as captivated as I have been since that fortuitous day that Rasher froze on your ankle. Regardless of latitude or longitude, I remain, _

  
_ Ever yours, _  
_ Victor Trevor _  


  
He lowered his pen.    
  
“Oh, dash it all!”   
  
He crumpled the page and threw it in the fire. Then he drew out a clean sheet of paper.

* * *

_ My dear Holmes, _  
  
_ I appreciate your kind words at the funeral. My father’s death and the circumstances surrounding it haunt me still. Seeking a new start, I leave for India, the Terai tea planting, tomorrow. _  
  
_ Please take my father’s advice. He had the highest regard for your abilities, as do I. I look forward to reading of your career in the newspapers or if you would be so kind to remember an old friend, in your own hand. I remain, _

  
_ Very sincerely yours, _  
_ Victor Trevor _  


  
He lowered his pen.    
  
“No, no, no!”   
  
He drew out a clean sheet of paper.

* * *

_ Holmes, _  
_ Thank you for your kind words at the funeral. I leave for India, the Terai tea planting, tomorrow. Best of luck to you in the future, with your studies and whatever field of endeavor you choose. I wish you nothing but success and believe me to be, _

  
_ Your friend, _  
_ Trevor _  


  
He screamed and threw the pen in the fire.

* * *

** GOOD-BYE FRIEND TERAI BOUND FULL STOP **


	21. Christmas Rose (Holmes & Victor Trevor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Community:** fan_flashworks  
>  **Title:** Christmas Rose  
>  **Prompt:** Rose  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Content Notes:** Ambiguous ending; references to canon story "The Gloria Scott"; Sherlock  & Victor Trevor (one-sided slash goggles optional).  
>  **Summary:** Holmes writes to Trevor following his visit.  
>  **Author's Note:** The meaning of the Christmas rose is from [Language of Flowers](https://archive.org/details/languageofflower00gree) by Kate Greenaway.

_My dear Trevor,_   
  
_ Our conversations have come to be, for me at least, a source of utility in ordering my thoughts as well as one of congeniality, and thus, I feel compelled to write to you of two matters, both weighing heavily upon my mind and heart.  _  
  
_ The first concerns a statement made by your father. Upon recovering from his faint, he said, “… _ it seems to me that all the detectives of fact and fancy would be children in your hands. That’s your line of life, sir, and you may take the world of a man who has seen something of the world _ .” I gave his words no weight at the time of their utterance for I was far too preoccupied by his sudden illness. With some days’ reflection, however, the notion of making a profession out of what has, until now, been a mere hobby has taken root. I do not take your father’s counsel lightly, but I also hold your judgment in great esteem and would welcome your views on the matter. _  
  
_ My own are that my interests are too narrow and my whims too mercurial to consider official channels. I would only wish to consider problems that challenge me intellectually; also, I would wish to retain the leisure and freedom necessary to pursue my scientific inquiries, wherever they might lead me.  _  
  
_ Nevertheless, I would need to establish a rapport with the police force, or at least with one or two of the more forward-thinking investigators, in order to gain knowledge of problems to which I might apply my methods with some hope of resolution. The creation of such a link would, I imagine, take much time and perseverance as would the forging a reputation for myself until my services are sought by clients directly.  _  
  
_ I confess that as this plan takes greater hold in my mind, I see less need for formal studies. Nevertheless, I am continuing with my experiments in organic chemistry. As anticipated, the hemoglobin one has failed again. _  
  
_ And so I dispense with the matter that weighs on my mind and advance to the second, which though related to the first, burdens a far more delicate organ.  _  
  
_ Even as I contemplate this possible profession, I am troubled by it. A simple set of my ‘parlor tricks,’ the likes of which has elicited your astonished smile on many occasions, resulted in a nervous paroxysm in your father, a man as robust as any I’ve ever known. And in the days that followed, his uneasy expression whenever I caught his gaze brought me no little discomfiture.   _  
  
_ The circumstance strengthens my desire to bring this hobby out of the realm of dinner table amusement and into a professional sphere, where it might be used towards more serious aims and where I might avoid unnecessary injury.  _  
  
_ But of greater significance to me is the reaction that my observations provoked in your father and by association, any loss of regard that you might have towards me now. And it is the latter, I freely admit, that troubles me most.  _  
  
_ I see, I observe, but I needn’t always put voice to sight and observation. A single word would not have escaped my lips had I foreseen that it might bring you distress in any way, least of all by putting your father’s health and wellbeing in jeopardy. I value our friendship far too much.  _  
  
_ How fortuitous was the morn when the irascible Rasher decided to make breakfast of my fibula! I shall always be indebted to him for bringing you to my door. And I could scarcely believe when your visits did not cease, as was my expectation, but rather lengthened and increased in frequency. On the surface, we seem worlds apart, so I am all the more heartened by the constancy and depth of your amity.  _  
  
_ Please accept my sincerest apologies for any upset that I may have caused you, and believe me to be, my dear friend, _

  
_ Very sincerely yours, _  
_ Sherlock Holmes _  


  
He set his pen on the desk, then lifted the pressed flower by the stem and twirled it, very slowly, once. “A Christmas rose. Not a rose at all, of course, actually a buttercup.  _ Helleborus _ _ niger _ . Odd that a poisonous flower should carry the message, ‘tranquilize my anxiety,’ but there you have it.” He shrugged and placed the flower in centre of the letter. Then he folded the pages and slipped the letter in an envelope.    
  
He rose and began to pace before the fire. At every third pass, he stopped and stared, first at the fire, then at the letter. Then he resumed his march.    
  
The clock struck eleven.    
  
He stopped and ran a hand through his hair and exclaimed,   
  
“Oh, dash it all!”


	22. Sir Arthur's Garden (ACD RPF)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Community:** fan_flashworks  
>  **Title:** Sir Arthur's Garden  
>  **Prompt:** Rose  
>  **Fandom:** Real Person Fiction  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Content Notes:** Crack, humor, satire of the portrayal of women in the Sherlock Holmes stories, references to canon stories "Thor Bridge," "The Sussex Vampire," "The Musgrave Ritual," and others, all dialogue, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle/Jean Leckie  
>  **Summary:** Sir Arthur Conan Doyle dreams of flowers.

“Good morning, my dear.”   
  
“Oh, Arthur! You look terrible.”   
  
“The dream I’ve had.”   
  
“Fairies?”   
  
“No, my dear, nothing so prosaic. Flowers.”   
  
“That sounds like it would be a nice dream. Tea?”   
  
“Yes, please. Thank you. It was a nightmare. The first was a purple orchid, a  _ Cattleya labiata _ . Brazilian by origin, of course. Frilly creature of the tropics. It pursued me as only such blossoms of sun and of passion can pursue, in crazed frenzy, with the heat of the Amazon in its, well, whatever plants have for blood.”   
  
“Oh, my goodness! Toast?”   
  
“Yes, thank you, my dear. I eluded it, but then came another.”   
  
“Orchid?”   
  
“No, this time it was a  _ Cantua buxifolia _ . A fierce red flower, worshipped by the Inkas of Perú, don’t you know?”   
  
“No, I’m afraid I didn’t, my dear. How fascinating.”   
  
“Well, it ran after me, with all the strength of its fiery tropical disposition, its red lips flapping, whipping its yellow tube like a crop. I fled, of course.”   
  
“Of course, my dear.”   
  
“Then came the daffodils!”   
  
“Oh, well, they must’ve been kind.”   
  
“Excitable Welsh daffodils.”   
  
“Oh.  _ Welsh _ daffodils.”   
  
“With a streak of madness in them by the way they hunted me. You know the Welsh, don’t you?”   
  
“Not as you do, my dear. Poached egg?”   
  
“Uh, no, thank you, my dear. Just tea and toast for me. Yes, well, in the end, I saw it, my salvation on the horizon.”   
  
“And what was that, my dear?”   
  
“An English rose on the vine. Oh, my heart sang! Pure, upright, virtuous, noble, hard-working—“   
  
“Excuse me for interrupting, my dear, but how can a rose be hard-working?”   
  
“Holding up the Empire is no easy task. It requires toil, my dearest.”   
  
“Right. So you saw the rose, and?”   
  
“I strode toward her, arms outstretched, ready to be cradled in her time-honoured, traditional embrace.”   
  
“As befits one of your, uh, nature.”   
  
“Precisely, my dear, but then all these damnable violets kept popping up!”   
  
“Arthur!”   
  
“Apologies. Not the kind of language a gentleman should employ at the breakfast table, but it was maddening. There were scores of them, tangling up my legs, blurring my vision, tripping me, blinding me, until I fell down amongst them and suffocated!”   
  
“Oh, my dear! How frightful!”   
  
“It was, it was. I don't know the meaning of it, but my nerves are shot!”   
  
“Perhaps a stroll around the garden will calm you.”    
  
“Garden! Return to the scene of the crime?! No, my good woman. I’ve been thinking that I should advance the dates for my tour of America.”   
  
“Yes?”   
  
“Yes, and I am thinking to include in the itinerary an excursion to the western territories. Desert. Mountains. Only rocks and sand as far as the eye can see.”   
  
“I suppose if you think it’s best, but I learned at that Royal Society lecture they do have a bit of green. Cactus, I believe they’re called.”   
  
“Ah, yes. Of the family  _ Cactaceae _ . Succulents with spines. Quite right, my dear, a spot of green in a barren land.”   
  
“I believe some of them even have blooms.”   
  
“Oh, a cactus rose! With its hard, thick leaves and its sharp quills. Standing proud in the desert. Like a Comanche bride!”   
  
“A what?”   
  
“Oh, my dear, it is not for your delicate ears to hear of the savagery of the Comanche woman, when scorned she is the most vengeful of enemies. Oh, yes, a cactus rose! I’ll be in my study for the rest of the day.”   
  
“Yes, dear.”


	23. Haemoglobin (Vampire Watson AU. Alternate First Meeting.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Community:** Watson's Woes and 1_million_words  
>  **Prompt:** Anticipation (Watson's Woes) and The Vampire (1_million_words; June 2016 Bingo Character card)  
>  **Title:** Haemoglobin  
>  **Rating:** Teen  
>  **Content Notes/Warnings:** AU; Vampire Watson; Alternate First Meeting; Vampires Doing What Vampires Do (Bite, Drink Blood, Kill Humans)  
>  **Summary:** Vampire Watson stalks his prey.

Predators—even reluctant ones—love the hunt.  I am no exception.   
  
That night, the fog afforded good hunting, but even if it had been a cloudless and moonlit, I would have been out.    
  
I was weak with thirst.     
  
I require human blood. Nothing else will do. I know this as I have searched in vain for a substitute since the day the Jezail fangs sank into my skin, imparting a four-pointed wound and condemning me to an immortal and, alas, predatory existence.    
  
I was still searching the day that I drained into this cesspool of a metropolis with all the other loungers and idlers of the Empire. I distracted myself until I could bare the lack no more.   
  
Drink, I must. And the more able-bodied the victim, the better. I had found the ill and the mad easier, but less satisfying, prey, and with my pent-up thirst, I knew that the vessel of the evening would surely be exhausted of its last drop. Victim was, in fact, the precise word.    
  
The doctor and soldier recoiled at this.    
  
The vampire did not.   
  
I chose my prey. All senses were fixed on him as I stalked him. He led me to familiar ground, St. Bartholomew’s Hospital.    
  
Much too late, however, I  realised that he was known to me: he had been a dresser under me at Barts.    
  
A short, fierce, battle waged within me. Conscience prevailed.    
  
I abandoned my quarry, transferring my attention to the first human figure I spotted.    
  
He was a tall man, over six feet, and excessively lean that he seemed considerably taller. Remembering my days in that great hospital, I deftly followed him along corridors, through passages, and finally out a side-door and into the soupy mist.   
  
Anticipation mounted. Drink was near.   
  
Something must’ve alerted him to my presence, however, for when I sprang, he did, too. He was a bit of a single-stick expert, and I confess that without my supernatural advantages, he would have bested me.   
  
But he was, in the end, only human.    
  
And I am not.   
  
I grasped him. I bared my fangs. I leaned in, my eyes fixed upon that delicious, delectable, quivering spot on his neck.    
  
“Haemoglobin.”   
  
It was—and still is—the most singular utterance of its kind, and as doctor, soldier, and vampire, I have heard more than most. My grip loosened just enough for him to say,   
  
“I have just found a re-agent which is precipitated by haemoglobin and by nothing else. It’s the most practical medico-legal discovery in years.”   
  
I felt my fangs recede as he continued.    
  
“If you will but allow me to demonstrate my discovery, then you may proceed,” he gave a very stifled nod in the direction of my mouth, “Doctor.”    
  
Shrieks of horror, pleas for mercy, yes, but I had never been presented with a plain-spoken, if hoarse, negotiation. And somehow he had gathered that I was, or had been, a doctor.    
  
I hardly knew what to say. The man was so not hobbled.   
  
“You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive."   
  
I quickly found my words. “How on earth did you know that?”    
  
“Never mind,” he said, making a noise that might have actually been a laugh. “The question now is about haemoglobin.”   
  
I let him go, expecting him to flee. He did not. He retrieved his stick and hat and fussed a bit with his clothes and hair. Then he slowly walked back toward the side door of the hospital.    
  
He stopped and opened the door.    
  
I stared. He smiled and bid me enter in gallant fashion.    
  
I entered.    
  
He led me to the chemical laboratory.    
  
“I will speak in theory for if I prick my finger to produce a fresh sample…”   
  
My dire thirst—temporarily suspended—opened one eye.    
  
“It would be unwise to tempt the devil,” I warned.    
  
“Exactly. Imagine that sample added a small quantity of to a litre of water such that there was no change in the appearance of the water. Then I would add these,” he showed me some white crystals and transparent fluid, “to the glass jar of water, whose contents would assume a dull mahogany colour. Then a brownish dust would precipitate to the bottom.”    
  
“It would be a very delicate test.”    
  
“A beautiful test. There are hundreds of men now walking the earth who would long ago have paid the penalty of their crimes, had this test been invented. It lacks the clumsiness, the uncertainty of older tests, and the blood need not be new. It could be quite old, in fact.”    
  
“You are to be congratulated,” I said, smiling, then added, “but I came here on business.” The last was spoken with genuine sorrow because I confess that I was charmed by his enthusiasm. But to fail twice in one hunt seemed, well, anaemic.   
  
My need would be denied no longer.   
  
He must have read my mind for he approached me with head tilted, neck bared as if in offering.    
  
“You are not surprised,” I observed. “You know what I am.”   
  
“It is my business to know what other people don’t know.” It was an arrogant statement, but he said it so plainly that, once again, I was disarmed.   
  
“You require human blood?” he asked.   
  
“Now,” I said, with urgency. I was nocturnal predator sensing the dawn.   
  
“There is a doctor here. In the hospital. Now. His wife, his mistress, and his two daughters might award you a medal for ridding them of his existence.”    
  
“He is healthy?”    
  
“Enough to perpetrate a litany of cruelties that I will enumerate should you care to hear them. When a doctor goes bad, he is the first of criminals.”   
  
I smiled. Then I laughed. “Later. You will be my hound?”   
  
“Perhaps you will return the favour someday. The game’s afoot,” he said, grinning.   
  
“Let’s hunt,” I said.   
  
I was mistaken on one point: I did manage to leave a single drop of blood in the vessel. That drop made its way into a litre of pure water. And it was, indeed, a beautiful reaction.    
  
As were later ones. 


	24. The Kettle Whistle (Poetry. POV Pining Holmes post-The Gloria Scott.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Community:** Fan_flashworks  
>  **Prompt:** Whistle  
>  **Title:** The Kettle Whistle  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Content Notes:** Rime couée; POV Holmes  
>  **Summary:** Holmes after Victor Trevor leaves for Terai  
>  **Author's Note:** Follows Correspondence (chapter 20 of this collection), in which Victor Trevor ends up saying goodbye to Holmes in a 6 word telegram (after pouring his heart out in draft letters).

The kettle whistle makes me bristle so.

Reminds me tea is here, is near. And oh!

A telegram’s a curt epistle, no?

What bitter dregs for friends!

This tragic act, it ends

With me, and tea, made foul by wistful woe!


	25. Bed (Pining Holmes)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Community:** Holmes Minor  
>  **Title:** Bed  
>  **Prompt:** Beds  
>  **Rating:** Teen  
>  **Content Notes:** POV Holmes; Holmes/Watson (one-sided); Watson/Man at the Turkish bath (implied); pining!Holmes  
>  **Summary:** Holmes is uncomfortable in the bed he makes for himself.  
>  **Author's Note:** For the June prompt.

I fold the newspaper with feigned inattention. 

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.” 

“You’re welcome. Oh, Doctor Watson!”

“Good morning, Mrs. Hudson. Holmes.”

“You’ve not slept well, Doctor. I shall have the mattresses turned at once. They’re overdue.”

“I fear it’s not the bed, but the bedded, my dear woman, that’s at fault.”

The cold and damp—Mrs. Hudson is correct; both are, in fact, unseasonable—have crept into your joints, inflaming old wounds. Pain has darkened your mood as well, pawky humour being the first casualty. 

Two observations and one discreet inquiry at a tobacconist have revealed that your usual remedy is not available: the Turkish bath that you were accustomed to visit is closed for repairs. You are a man of habit. Rather than seek out a new establishment, you go without. And suffer.

I glance at the black-and-white print, then let it fall to the table.

“Are you finished, Holmes?” 

I grunt. You hum. Mrs. Hudson prattles.

Your eye catches what it is meant to catch. 

Good. 

I am not surprised when some time later you ask, “Anything on today?”

“No. A bit of study.” I wave toward a pile of manuscript spilling onto the floor. 

You nod. 

A fishing metaphor crosses my mind. I dismiss it.  
\---  
“Good evening, one and all!” you boom.

I grunt.

I catch your reflection in something shiny. It grows larger. 

You slump into your chair, sighing, smiling. “So, how’s the study?”

“Excellent,” I reply. 

You are the picture of a man at home in his physical form. 

No aches, no pains. 

You are the portrait of a man satisfied.

Oh.

“I, uh, tried that new place on Northumberland Avenue. The Turkish bath. It’s very good,” you say.

I grunt. My gaze falls to your boots, your boot laces, and the elaborate knots that will cause you no little trouble later in their undoing.

Undoing. Unknotting you. And not just the heat, my dear man. 

Hands. Fingers, too, yes. More? I do not know.

How close were your bodies? Could you breathe in his breath or did the steam hide the panting? 

Did your hands, fingers move or merely revel in the movement of his? 

What sounds escaped your parted lips? 

Where did your mind wander? 

I do not know.

My own wanderings, however, threaten to betray me so I rise in a flurry, take a curt, but not unusual given my eccentricities, leave, and flee to my bed chamber.

I am not alone.

“What are you doing?!” I growl.

“I’m making the bed that you’re to lie in,” she says cheerily. “So much better when I do it than when you do it yourself.”

Her words pierce my thoughts—thoughts of moist heat and sweat-damp skin and guttural cries and those damnable knots—like an arrow. 

I bark. 

She blinks.

“I said, ‘It’s always just a bit nicer when I make the bed, though dear Bessie does her best.’ Sleep well, Mister Holmes.”

She pats me on the arm as she leaves.


	26. Knife-fight (Humor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Community:** Holmes Minor  
>  **Title:** Knife-fight  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Content Notes:** Holmes  & Watson, OC, references to "The Dying Detective" and "The Retired Colourman," Watson is left-handed. Humor.  
>  **Summary:** First impression at Simpson's  
>  **Author's Note:** For 1_million_words June bingo square: knife-fight.

“Mister Holmes, might we have a moment of your time?“   
  
Holmes and Watson looked up from their plates.   
  
“I am afraid—“ began Holmes    
  
“By all means,” said Watson, quickly rising. “Here, you and your lovely—“   
  
The older woman smiled. “Niece. Violet.”   
  
Holmes snorted. “Naturally.”   
  
The two woman stared for a moment, then Watson continued, “—niece, please sit here, I’ll just move around the table.” He set his plate and cutlery beside Holmes. “May we get you anything?” He gestured to the waiter.   
  
“No, thank you.”   
  
“Madame,” said Holmes, gesturing to his food, “I’ve not eaten in three days. And man cannot live by claret and biscuits alone.”   
  
“By all means, sir, continue,” the older woman replied with a puzzled stare. “You, too, Doctor Watson.”   
  
“Oh, I’ve not been dying, but putting up with  _ his _ dying, does, work up the ol’ appetite.” He grinned.    
  
“I see,” she said vaguely. “Well, we saw you through the window and are in desperate need of—“   
  
Holmes returned to his meal, his right elbow jutting out as he cut the meat.   
  
“Let me cut you some bread,” said Watson, reaching for the loaf, knife in his left hand.   
  
“Watson—“   
  
“Holmes—“   
  
Their elbows clashed. Again. And again.   
  
“You need to move your arm—“   
  
“No, you—“   
  
“Mine is the longer arm, so logically, mine goes forward while yours goes—“   
  
“Holmes, the bread is in front, move your plate so that it’s a little—“   
  
“Watson, this is ridiculous! You and your sinister ways! Why don’t you—?”   
  
“I’m going to stab you between your stubborn, melodramatic ribs if you don’t—“   
  
“I’d love to see you try!”   
  
Their eyes met. They dropped their knives. And turned their heads.   
  
The other side of the table was empty.

* * *

“My dear, they are most unsuitable. And, I believe, a bit mad.”   
  
“I’ve heard of a Mister Barker in Surrey, Aunt, perhaps he can uncover what’s happened to dear Raymond.”   
  
“The one with the ridiculous spectacles?”   
  
She nodded.    
  
“Needs must, but for goodness sake, let’s call on him during business hours!”


	27. Duel (AU. Parrots Holmes & Watson)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Community:** fan_flashworks  
>  **Title:** Duel  
>  **Prompt:** Flight  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Content Notes:** AU; Parrot!Holmes; Parrot!Watson; Alternate First Meeting; crack  
>  **Summary:** Holmes (an African grey parrot) and Watson (a millitary macaw) meet on a hot air balloon.  
>  **Author's Note:** Inspired by [The Air Balloon Debate](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6985798) by thesmallhobbit and a real-life duel that took place in hot air balloons between a Portuguese man (Molica) and an unnamed Dutchman as reported in _The Illustrated Police News_ on March 16, 1878.

**_You’re in my spot._ **   
  
_Excuse me, but I don’t see any signage designating this particular edge of the basket as belonging to any bird._  
  
“Hullo, hullo. What have we here? And on today of all days! Could it be? I would swear it was Watson, the military macaw that used to peck about when I was at Barts. Still got your dress greens on, though that wing looks a bit mauled.”   
  
Watson ruffled his feathers.   
  
_Good Lord! It’s Stamford! I thought you were studying to be a doctor, not a hot air balloon pilot._  
  
“I am a doctor, by the way, the hot air balloon piloting is just a bit of recreation, but it may be the death of us today, eh, Holmes? Holmes always likes the dangerous jobs. Seems to bloody well thrive on them.  Let’s see, introductions. Holmes, Watson. Watson, Holmes.”   
  
The grey parrot spread his wings and squawked.   
  
**_You’re in my spot!_ **  
  
Watson returned the gesture and the angry cry.   
  
_How is this your spot?_  
  
“Now, now, let’s not have that. There’s enough bad blood being spilled today. Here, Watson, let’s move you just a bit so that Holmes can have his spot beside the anemometer. All right. We’re ready and,” he checked his pocket watch, “right on time. Here they come. Gentlemen, please, this way!”   
  
“That ignorant Dutchman thinks he can insult me and that I will not demand satisfaction? On terra firma, in the heavens, at the bottom of the sea, it matters not to the man from Lisboa!”   
  
**_Van Dijk is a good aeronaut._ **  
  
_But a lousy shot._  
  
Holmes tilted his head and blinked.   
  
**_Yes?_ **  
  
_Yes. That’s why I’ve got quite a bit of seed riding on Senhor Molica and son._  
  
**_Ah, a gambling bird._ **  
  
Watson flapped his wings.   
  
_Just the occasional flutter._  
  
“Here we go!” cried Stamford.   
  
“Ready the pistols, meu filho. And the flags.”   
  
“Yes, Papá.”   
  
“I’m got my medical bag and dressing kit,” said Stamford.   
  
“Muito bem, but it is that disrespectful dog of a man who shall need them, Doctor-Piloto.”   
  
**_Good choice of weapons._ **  
  
Holmes launched himself from the edge of the basket, wings flapping, then glided towards the second balloon in the distance. Minutes later, he returned.   
  
**_In all probability, you shall dine well tonight, Watson._ **  
  
_Yes?_  
  
**_Van Dijk and his second are drunk._ **  
  
“Let’s begin. Those two imbeciles are hopping about, waving the flags, and squawking. Ha, ha! They resemble nothing so much as this pair of stupid creatures.” He waved a hand towards the parrots.   
  
“Now, sir, there’s no need to…” began Stamford.   
  
**_I say!_ **  
  
_We’ll see who’s stupid!_  
  
“Ready! Aim! Fire!”   
  
Holmes and Watson leapt into the air and landed on Senhor Molica, beaks and claws first.   
  
“ARGH!”   
  
“Papá?!”   
  
“Are you shot, sir?!”   
  
“Yes, but that is nothing compared to what these two savage birds have done to me! Look!”   
  
His face and hands were covered in blood.   
  
Holmes and Watson soared.   
  
_**Well done, Watson.** _  
  
_Likewise Holmes. One must preserve one’s honour. Care to share my winnings this evening?_  
  
**_I’d be delighted. You have been in Guyana, I perceive._ **  
  
_How on earth did you know that?_  
  
**_Never mind. You aren’t, by any chance, looking for a comfortable nest at a reasonable price?_ **  
  
_Why, yes, as a matter of fact, I am._  
  
They flew off into the sunset.   


 

**THE END**


	28. A Bee for Sherlock (Horror, Retirementlock)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Community:** fan_flashworks  
>  **Title:** A Bee for Sherlock  
>  **Prompt:** Borrowed Title  
>  **Rating:** Teen  
>  **Content Notes/Warnings:** Horror; dark fic; Major Character Deaths; Purposefully Vague Creepiness; bees.  
>  **Summary:** "A Rose for Emily" by William Faulkner retold with Holmes as Emily.

When Mister Sherlock Holmes died, the entire town went to his funeral. The men through a sort of respectful admiration for the public figure he had once been and the women mostly out of curiosity. He’d had no dealings the townspeople save an old housekeeper in at least ten years.   
  
His was a small cottage on the southern slope of the downs sheltered as much for the bee-keeper as the bees kept. It commanded a great view of the Channel or so said those who had frequented the place before Mister Sherlock took up residence there. It was a quiet, secluded house in a quiet, secluded part of the world. Mister Sherlock might have been buried in Westminster, some said, for all the service he done for Queen and Country, but, no, in the end, he was laid to rest in our quiet cemetery, alongside retired schoolmasters and vicars’ wives and mothers’ babies.   
  
Alive, Mister Sherlock had been a legend. And like most legends he was viewed at a distance, with awe, with fear, and with speculation run amok. He extended no invitations of a social nature and he accepted none. He did not answer the door, front or rear, so most tradespersons were obliged to have their dealings with the housekeeper. The few that crossed the threshold said it was a quiet house, except for the buzzing of the bees.    
  
He had but one visitor. We all knew Doctor Watson from his tales in  _ The Strand _ , of course. He was a kind man, quick to smile and lend a hand in matters small and large. He listened, he chatted, he inquired as to our health and guffawed at our little town jokes. His were only the occasional weekend visits, but it wasn’t long before he knew everyone.    
  
One weekend, he and Mister Sherlock stopped by the chemist’s. And in the flap of a pair of gossamer wings, news had circled the town that Mister Sherlock had gone and bought himself some arsenic. The boldest of us asked Doctor Watson about it, and he just laughed and said it was for the bees when they got waspish.   
  
It was a dark morning when Doctor Watson arrived with a large suitcase and a trunk. We all agreed he’d come to stay, and there was unanimous delight at this addition to our paltry numbers. We had little time to gossip, however, because that was the day of the big storm. By afternoon, the sky was thick with black and foreboding clouds. They let loose torrents of rain, cracks of dagger-sharp lightning, and winds that howled like a mythical beast dying on a hero’s sword.    
  
Mister Sherlock’s cottage was boarded up, but this was not out of the ordinary—every home and business in town had taken such precautions. But his stayed shut like a tomb long after the rest of us were nigh finished sweeping up debris and hauling away fallen limbs.   
  
We were just about to send a brave soul to his door when the boards on the windows began to come down. It was mostly the housekeeper’s work, Mister Sherlock himself was rarely seen. And it was only the rear windows that were revealed. The front and sides remained in their storm-ready state.   
  
A few more days passed, and the buzzing resumed. The bees, it seemed, had weathered the storm just fine.    
  
But we never saw Doctor Watson again.    
  
Summers and winters passed, and Mister Sherlock and his bees kept themselves to themselves. The housekeeper’s grey hair turned white, and she went from being a half-blind, half-deaf, half-dumb creature to a hunched, slow-moving idiot of the first degree who did her shopping by way of grunts of varying intonations and index-finger pointing.    
  
She never said a word, not even that last morning when the milkman on his rounds saw her leave out the front door, with the door itself wide open, never to return.    
  
And it just goes to show how much of a legend Mister Sherlock was that the door stayed open without a soul darkening the threshold for three whole days.   
  
But then there was a smell.    
  
So we formed a committee and marched ourselves down to the little cottage on the southern slope and knocked on an open door.    
  
“Mister Sherlock?” they called.    
  
The light from the open door and the few uncovered windows was not enough. One of us lit a candle and led the way.    
  
The sitting room was furnished in the style of our grandfathers. Before a cold fireplace, there were two handsome armchairs.   
  
And in the armchairs were the men themselves.    
  
Mister Sherlock was dressed in a fine suit. At first glance, he seemed to be only sleeping, but even candlelight could not warm his grey pallor, and upon closer inspection, the body in the chair resembled nothing so much as a plant just beginning to take root in the soil around it.   
  
Doctor Watson looked as if he’d just sat down from a brisk walk and was about to see to his pipe and a long yarn before supper.   
  
And pinned to each man’s lapel, in place of a buttonhole flower, was one single, solitary bee.    
  
We stood, silent and rooted, between the two of them as the buzzing outside grew louder and louder until it became a cacophonous roar.


	29. Diving. (Poetry. Villanelle. Reichenbach angst. POV Holmes)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Community:** fan_flashworks  
>  **Prompt:** Choices  
>  **Title:** Diving  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Content Notes:** (variation on a) villanelle; Reichenbach angst, POV Holmes  
>  **Summary:** Diving's much like falling save for the fear.

Diving’s much like falling save for the fear.

Leaping into nothing, death’s yawning maw.

Leaving, perceiving what was once held dear.

 

Hurtling headlong through spray-clouds that tear.

Plunging, plummeting beyond word and law.

Diving’s much like falling save for the fear.

 

Penning half-lies slick with friendship’s veneer.

Embracing the grave, watery and raw.

Leaving, deceiving what was once held dear.

 

Clinging toes dig into a wall thought sheer.

Echoing horrors below pitch and yaw.

Diving’s much like falling save for the fear.

 

Waiting, watching for the chaos to clear.

Awaiting every error, misstep, flaw.

Leaving, misleading what was once held dear.

 

Remembering what may ne’er reappear.

Fleeing danger, ghosts that haunt, pains that gnaw.

Diving’s much like falling save for the fear.

Leaving, grieving the loss of him held dear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final entry in this collection. Thank you to all my lovely readers.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
